


Traditional

by OTPshipper98



Series: Harry Potter in English [45]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking Games, Drunken Kissing, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Neck Kissing, Not Wearing Underwear, Rutting, Smut, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 18:09:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20178538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OTPshipper98/pseuds/OTPshipper98
Summary: Harry makes a discovery. Draco makes a promise.





	Traditional

**Author's Note:**

  * For [milkandhoney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkandhoney/gifts).

> Written for the prompt "Harry learns Draco goes 'traditional' under his robes" sent by Milkandhoney. Beta'd by Keyflight790. 💗

****“Take your robes off.”

For a moment there was silence. Then there was Malfoy’s intake of breath and a low snicker from Parkinson. Pinking slightly, Malfoy reached for his drink. 

“That'll be your third time skipping, mate,” said Seamus with a mischievous grin. "Are you sure you wanna go there?” 

“Yeah, _ mate_,” Parkinson chuckled. “You sure you want to go there?” 

“Fuck you,” Malfoy muttered before taking a gulp. Then, turning to Seamus, “The fact that you have no sense of shame doesn’t mean we’re all like…” Malfoy scowled, gestured in Seamus’s general direction. “Like _ that_. And please, do refrain from calling me _mate_ next time.”

Seamus had been the first to end up in nothing but his pants that night. He’d been cocky about it, winking at Dean as he took off his pyjama bottoms and threw them on Dean’s lap. 

He shrugged, idly scratching at his bare chest, saying, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

As the game went on, Harry’s gaze remained on the pink that had tinged Malfoy’s cheekbones and that refused to fade away—on the quick, nervous movements of his eyes and mouth. There was a round of laughter, a shuffle at his side as Neville got up alongside Padma, but it all seemed to be happening at the end of a tunnel. A tunnel made of the expression that had bloomed on Malfoy’s face at Seamus’s dare; made of the not-quite-unexpected, not-quite-wanted disappointment that had washed over Harry as Malfoy refused his dare—the last one he’d be able to refuse that night. Honestly, what an idiotic move. And for what? Keeping his robes on? Was the git really _ that _much of a prude? It wasn’t like they all hadn’t already seen his legs in the Quidditch changing rooms! Or his bum, or the layer of thin, blond hair that covered his thighs and his stupid calves!

“Maybe his pants are extremely ridiculous,” he murmured to Ron, thinking aloud. “Maybe he’s wearing Gryffindor pants!”

Ron blinked a few times as his attention snapped from the snogging session happening in the centre of the circle to Harry. He gave him a confused look, then scrunched his nose when Harry’s words got to him. “Mate, please, spare us both that mental image.”

The bottle fell twice on Harry before it even came close to pointing at Malfoy again. The first time Harry had to confess to having jerked off to Quidditch magazines; the second he had to lick the sole of Ron’s foot. Still grimacing from the taste, he spun the bottle again. He took another sip of his drink, and it took him a moment to check where the bottle had stopped.

It was pointing at Malfoy.

Malfoy, who was looking at him with a raised eyebrow—whose composed expression didn’t hide the way he was clutching at his own foot, the way he was gnawing at the inside of his lower lip.

It wasn’t the first time they all played drinking games, but it _ was _the first time Harry had Malfoy at his mercy. The reverse had only happened once, and Malfoy had dared Harry to say he was a scarheaded nincompoop. He’d been avoiding a confrontation, Harry knew. He wasn’t yet sure he wanted to give Malfoy the same satisfaction.

“Well?” he prompted when Malfoy just kept piercing him with that stupid stare. Malfoy took another moment to think. It was as though he was analysing every possibility, every outcome; as though he was trying to predict what Harry’s next move would be, kind of like Ron did when they played chess. 

Finally, Malfoy said, “Truth.”

Harry’s mind lagged for a moment as he realised he’d been expecting Malfoy to say dare. Then, without thinking, he asked, “Why did you refuse to take off your robes?” 

As he longingly eyed his drink, Malfoy’s eyes widened ever so slightly. He looked like he hadn’t been expecting that question, as obvious as it was for Harry.

“Nu-uh-uhh.” Zabini placed Malfoy’s glass out of his reach. “No more skipping for you, I’m afraid!”

With a scowl, Malfoy raised his chin at Harry. It didn’t hide the way colour rose back in his cheekbones as he mumbled, trying and failing to sound proud, “I…go traditional, if you must know.”

“I knew it!” Seamus bellowed as some of their classmates snorted around them. Ron, who’d been taking a sip at his firewhiskey, spluttered all over the floor. Parkinson doubled over at the expression on Zach’s face. 

Harry frowned, looking around. “What—what does that mean?” he asked in Ron’s direction. But his friend was too busy pretending to sob on Hermione’s shoulder.

“Oh, this keeps getting better,” said Parkinson between snickers. “Nobody tell him!”

“It means he’s currently not wearing any—mmphh!” Hannah covered Seamus’s mouth, but what he heard was enough for Harry to understand. _ Pants_. Malfoy was not wearing pants under his robes.

It was as though the information took entire minutes to fully sink in. As though it was too condensed to flow, and every inch it sunk into Harry’s conscience had him blinking, shaking his head at the realisation. His classmates eventually stopped bickering, eventually kept playing, and yet Harry stayed still, his eyes focusing and unfocusing on Malfoy’s—now completely red—face, on Malfoy’s hunched posture. On Malfoy’s _ crotch_.

Merlin. Was that even comfortable? Surely it couldn’t be, right? And why was it even called _ traditional_? Was it a pureblood thing? Bloody hell, did Lucius Malfoy not wear pants either? Had _ Voldemort_? 

“Quit staring at me, you bloody heathen,” Malfoy suddenly snapped. He still looked incredibly flustered, and Harry promptly decided he rather liked the slight widening of his eyes. 

Dean leaned on Neville’s thigh to wave a hand in front of Harry’s face, saying, “I think we may have broken him,” but Harry just batted it away, frowning at Malfoy. 

“You don’t wear pants but _ I’m _ the heathen?”

“Um…Harry.” Nev pointed at the bottle on the floor. “It’s your turn.”

“What? Who just spun it?”

At the other side of the circle, Zabini smirked. “Truth or dare, darling?”

Harry’s gaze fell from Zabini to the bottle, then back to Zabini. Then Malfoy caught his attention, and as Harry replied, unthinking, “Dare,” their stares held.

“Excellent.” Zabini took a slow gulp of firewhiskey, carefully deposited the glass in front of him. Wiped his lower lip with a finger. “Give our Draco a snog, if you please.”

Malfoy’s head snapped to the side. Ron’s intake of breath sounded almost like a whistle, and Parkinson and Zabini high-fived in front of Malfoy’s horrified face.

“No,” Malfoy spluttered. “Absolutely not!”

“It’s Potter that has to decide to refuse the dare, may I remind you.”

As all the eyes in the circle turned to him, Harry took in the sudden need to crawl forward and onto Malfoy’s lap. He _ could _ refuse the dare, he’d only used one of his three opportunities so far, but... 

Taking another swig of his drink, he tried his best to smirk and said, “Are you scared, Malfoy?”

“Of you?” Malfoy huffed. “_Please_.”

“Well then, what’s all the fuss about?” Harry stumbled forward, knocking his—thankfully empty—glass in the process and earning a few chuckles from the group. When he was face to face with Malfoy, though, his resolve shook somewhat, his mind clouding at the idea of sitting in Malfoy’s lap—of…of being just a layer of fabric away from…

“I don’t have all day, Scarhead,” said Malfoy through gritted teeth. He wasn’t looking at Harry, though, not exactly; his light grey eyes—their depth so overwhelming from close up—were practically flying from the floor to Harry’s shoulder, to his own glass of firewhiskey, to…to his own crotch, for a moment, as though he needed to check his robes were still there. 

With a shiver of pleasure that travelled all the way down to his groin, Harry clumsily climbed on top of Malfoy’s welcoming lap. 

“First you try to avoid this,” Harry said slowly, “now you’re impatient…” Damn, but Malfoy’s thighs felt _ hot _ under his. “It almost seems like you’re trying to hide something.” He leaned forward, his nose almost bumping against Malfoy’s pointy one. Godric, but Malfoy’s scent felt like it was running through his veins, intoxicating him alongside the alcohol. It felt so good he wanted to bury his face in Malfoy’s robes at his collarbone and just…_breathe_. “Some sort of… _feelings_, perhaps?”

“D—Don’t be ridiculous, Potter,” Malfoy hissed. But his eyes did that irresistible thing again, and his hard body shook a little under Harry’s. “And quit the chattering. You were dared to snog me, not to fucking—not to—”

“Rile you up?” Harry brushed his lips to Malfoy’s cheek, smiling, clutching at Malfoy’s robes under his shoulder blades to keep himself from swaying. “Maybe if you weren’t so desperate for my mouth...”

“I’m not—! _ Ugh_, just—just shut up and come _ here_, you insufferable bloody—” 

Strong, angry fingers gripped Harry’s hair as Malfoy guided their mouths together with a groan. 

His classmate’s snickers, their gasps and comments and shouts of delight, got lost in the gush of blood rushing behind Harry’s ears—in the low, keening sound that reverberated in Malfoy’s throat when Harry impatiently worked his lips open with the tip of his tongue; when Harry traced the wet inside of Malfoy’s lower lip, biting at it with a startled moan as Malfoy, needy, pulled at his hair until he was just at the edge of pain. 

Light-headed and desperately in need of somewhere to hold on to, Harry let his hands slide down until they were resting on the promising curve of Malfoy’s arse. It earned him a soft moan, another pull at his hair. Malfoy’s hips bucked, a minute gesture that nonetheless made Harry’s cock _ twitch_. Merlin, but he was hardening. From kissing _ Malfoy_. And in front of his friends and classmates, no less. And…and Malfoy wasn’t wearing anything under his robes, and what if—what if they slid up somehow, what if someone _ saw_, what if _ Harry _ got to—to _ see_?

As unrealistic as that scenario was, it was enough for the sounds around him to come into sharp focus. He pulled back from the kiss, heaving, shivering in Malfoy’s arms. When he opened his eyes, Malfoy was devouring him with his stare, and Harry found himself short of insults, of comebacks, too busy deciding whether Ron would faint if he leaned in for more. Whether he cared.

When Malfoy brushed their parted lips together again, though, a few groans reverberated around them, and something—a shoe, he realised a second later—hit the back of his head. Or rather, Malfoy’s hands still tangled at the back of his head.

“Get a roooooom!”

“But spin the bottle first!”

Malfoy’s eyes were still on him when Harry tumbled backwards and grabbed the bottle. It took him a second to realise he needed to turn around in order to spin it, and another couple of them to come up with a question for Parvati.

“Er…who do you fancy?”

There was another round of groans, and even Parvati rolled her eyes. “Congratulations, Harry, you’re officially the last to know.” When he just blinked at her, she said, her knee starting to bounce, “It’s Hannah, you idiot!”

“Oh.” He was still sitting in front of Malfoy, he realised as Parvati spun the bottle with another exasperated huff. He turned to him again, unthinking, but all Malfoy had for him was a raised eyebrow and a pair of high, beautifully pinked cheekbones. 

When Harry opened his mouth, made to move closer, Malfoy turned his eyes away from him and mumbled an embarrassed, “Go back to your seat, Potter.” And an instant later, “Your Weasel seems like he could do with another shoulder to cry on.”

So that was that, Harry thought with a pang of disappointment as he crawled back to his seat—bumping against a very unsteady Michael Corner in the process. He wasn’t about to do anything with Malfoy if he didn’t want to.

Malfoy, though, did a terribly poor job of keeping his gaze away from Harry the rest of the night for someone who wasn’t interested in more. Catching stare after stare directed his way, but never meeting Malfoy’s infuriating eyes, Harry had to spend a good half hour clinging to what little of his sanity that kiss that left him with. 

When the circle finally dispersed, some of their classmates going for more drinks at the table, some others retreating to the sofas or their rooms, a strong hand pulled Harry’s robes at his nape and he was suddenly standing in front of a very flustered, very annoyed Draco Malfoy. 

“What are you waiting for?” Malfoy hissed, pulling at him again. “Come on, we don’t have all night.”

And so, just like that, Malfoy and Harry were sneaking out of the common room. Harry didn’t have time to check whether anyone had noticed them leaving together, but as soon as the door closed behind him and the sound of their quick steps echoed on the stone floor of the deserted, dark corridor, the thin level of worry lifted from his shoulders, leaving behind a quickly growing coat of desire. 

“Where are we—”

“_Shush _!” Malfoy shot him a murderous glance. “You bloody Gryffindor.”

The Astronomy tower, that was where. Harry only just realised their destination when he tripped over the stairs on their quick way up, too lost in the pale shine of Malfoy’s hair every time they walked past a torch, past a window that let the moonlight peek in, to concentrate on keeping balance. Malfoy grabbed his hand, hoisted him up, and then turned his back to Harry only to shake his head and face Harry again, his eyes glinting in the gloom of the narrow, curved corridor. Harry watched, dumbfounded and mesmerised, as Malfoy seemingly argued with himself—as Malfoy crowded him with a groan and placed his hands on either side of Harry’s head, leaning in.

“We,” Malfoy breathed against Harry’s cheek, “are making it to the top of this stupid tower.” And then he pressed his lips to Harry’s and worked Harry’s mouth open, just like Harry had done earlier, but with an angry frown, with a groan of frustration. Harry clutched at Malfoy's robes, his whole body shaking, wanting—no, _ needing_. Their tongues met, and Harry gasped, and pulled Malfoy closer, and thrusted his body forward, too drunk and aroused to restrain the moan that broke from his throat when Malfoy pressed him harder against the wall. Harry’s head would have hit the stone if Malfoy hadn’t brought his fingers back to his strands, clinging roughly to them as he held Harry’s waist with his other hand. 

With an urgent, pleading hum, Harry slipped his hands around Malfoy, raking them over Malfoy’s arse. Merlin, but that felt overwhelmingly good. Malfoy panted against his mouth, a low whine only half-forming at the back of his throat, and Harry grabbed at his arse cheeks and brought their bodies together with another unsteady thrust. 

“_Fffuck _ ,” Malfoy slurred against the side of Harry’s mouth, dampening Harry’s cheek. His mission to get to the top of the tower apparently forgotten, he roughly grabbed Harry’s jaw and tilted his head to the side with a pull to his hair. And then there was a mouth on his neck, and Harry was _ melting_, Malfoy’s body against his the only thing holding him in place as he moaned, and gasped, and rolled his body against Malfoy’s—his cock against the bulge of Malfoy’s. 

He could feel Malfoy’s groans of pleasure against his neck. Could feel Malfoy’s tongue circling his wet skin, could feel Malfoy’s puffed breaths as he trapped another patch of his throat and drew it into his mouth with a loud sucking sound, with another twirl of his tongue; with a light, maddening scrap of teeth. He was still holding Harry’s head, still holding him in place, and all Harry could see as his knees became weaker with every thrust, with every twitch of Malfoy’s bum under his clawed hands, with every twitch of their _ cocks _, was the side of Malfoy’s head—his beautiful, shining hair—was the curved stone wall of the tower, a torch blinking in the distance. All he could smell was Malfoy and the cold humidity of the castle; all he could hear were their moans, all he could taste was the memory of those lips on his—those lips that were kissing their way up his jaw, sucking at his earlobe. 

Malfoy licked a long stripe just behind his ear, all the way to the line of his scalp, his nails digging into Harry’s head, his hips snapping forward with the help of Harry’s hands. Harry gasped, and shook, and rutted desperately against Malfoy as he came, his toes curling when Malfoy sucked at his jaw through his orgasm. Malfoy whined a long, high note, burying his face in Harry’s neck. His hands fell to Harry’s hips as his movements, too, became erratic, frenzied, and then weak, slow, slower, until he came to a halt.

For a second there was only their ragged breaths—Malfoy’s body slumped against Harry, Harry’s own sunk against the wall. Then Malfoy stepped back and Harry’s eyes fell to the still half-hard bulge at his groin. His robes were dark, and the corridor was dimly lit, but…there was a wet spot there, Harry was sure he could see it. Unthinking, he reached out and brushed two fingers to it, marvelling in the thought of Malfoy’s cock being but a layer of clothes away from his touch—of Malfoy’s come dampening his robes as the head of his cock brushed against them.

Malfoy’s breath hitched, and he took another step back. Harry dropped his hand, feeling sated and tired, saying, “I…wanted to see.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, huffing; but then he visibly swallowed as he stepped forward and, not quite catching Harry’s lower lip in his, breathed, “I wanted you to see.” 

Harry’s entire body _ shivered_, his eyes falling closed, his every nerve trembling as Malfoy’s lips grazed his cheek and the edge of his ear. And when Malfoy’s lips curved into a smile against his sensitive skin—when he murmured, his breath unsteady, “Next time,” and “at the top of the tower,” Harry could do little but gasp, but hold on to the wall behind him as Malfoy’s retreating steps reverberated through the stairwell.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr at [@rockmarina](https://rockmarina.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Even if this is an old fic, kudos, comments and bookmarks are still incredibly appreciated ❤️


End file.
